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THE 


POCKET PIECE 


SHORT STORIES AND SKETCHES 
BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 


FIRST SERIES 

NO. 1 


EDGAR MAY.HEW BACON- < 

, “ c oPYR iQHr ^ 

( OCT 16 1&9V 

V 


NEW YORK 

WALBRIDGE & CO. 





Copyright by 

EDGAR MAYHEW BACON 
1891 


Jt -V7, i 

lyrXrvt/K 



1 


The Mackenzie Press, New York. 


INTRODUCTION 


Verily, a pocket-piece should need no 
introduction. It should lie so cosily and 
cannily in the easiest corner of your fa- 
vorite pocket that you can hardly believe 
that you did not come from the mint to- 
gether. 

Therefore we will not say much. If it 
fits your fancy, then it has fulfilled its 
mission and you will no doubt look for 
others of the same coinage that are upon 
the road. 


The Publishers. 


















f 




















* 










AUTHOR’S PREFACE 


The stories contained in this little 
book have been once submitted to the 
public in the pages of “ Scribner’s Maga- 
zine,” “ The Atlantic Monthly,” “ The 
Epoch,” and other widely read period- 
icals ; by the courtesy of whose pub- 
lishers I am allowed to put them in more 
permanent form. If I launch them again 
without great expectations it must be 
also without grave misgivings, since I can 
show so honorable a clearance. If they 
serve to relieve the tedium of a journey, 
to while away the hour before dinner, or 
even to act as a gentle soporific for 
some wakeful reader, they will have ac- 
complished all that the author antici- 
pates. 


Edgar Mayhew Bacon. 




CONTENTS 


The Toddville Raffle. 

Zenas Smith’s Ride to Roxbury. 
Squaring an Old Account. 
McRotty’s Van. 

Uncle Sunday. 

The Historian of the Future. 

















THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


The day of the big raffle had arrived. 
All the sporting men of the township, 
and that included about two-thirds of the 
male population, gathered in the bar-room 
of Jackson’s tavern and prepared for the 
annual event by deep potations of crude 
whiskey and the unsavory combustion of 
alleged Havanas. Toddville had a cus- 
tom, all its own, which was sufficiently 
unique to merit a prefatory word of expla- 
nation. All property forfeit to the town 
through non-payment of taxes, as well as 
unredeemed securities or such chattels as 


8 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


had been accepted for debt or fine, were 
appraised by a committee, who took their 
aggregate values as a basis and prepared 
a certain number of lottery tickets which 
were sold at a uniform price to all com- 
ers. In purchasing these tickets it had 
long been customary to throw dice for 
choice of numbers, and as such a selection 
could be nothing more than guesswork 
the result of every drawing was watched 
with great interest. 

Among the prominent loungers at Jack- 
son’s, upon the day in question, was Jerry 
Winkle. He had but little money, and 
that little he had invested in a single 
chance for a ticket; but the very wealthi- 
est capitalist of them all, even old Major 
Gumble, who had paid for ten “goes” 
with the air of a man who could afford 
ten more if he wished, did not support a 
loftier mien. Winkle’s broad-brimmed 
felt hat, worn at a rakish angle, suggested 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


9 


a challenge. Over the frayed front of a 
shirt of questionable purity an unbuttoned 
waistcoat disclosed the flowing ends of a 
necktie. To wear a necktie was in itself 
a distinction in a town where most men 
were content to go collarless. Jerry’s 
hands were thrust into his pockets, and 
his trousers into his boots. The fact that 
these boots were red as to tops and foxy 
about the heels, did not at all interfere 
with the impression that they were in- 
tended as a groundwork for spurs. 

Newbury King rested one elbow on 
the bar, shook the dice-box and threw. 
Ace, three, four, and six spots were the 
result. “Six’n four’s ten, ’n four’s four- 
teen,” chanted Jackson. “Next!” Ma- 
jor Gumble took the box. He peered 
into its depths with an air of great author- 
ity and rattled the cubes as one who has 
but to command fortune. He cast; six 
chances: sixteen, eleven, fourteen, twenty- 


10 


THE TODD VILLE RAFFLE. 


two, thirteen, ten — he looked annoyed and 
called for a whiskey; then, with glass in 
one hand and box in the other, he smiled 
once more on the attentive crowd and 
threw again: eleven, nine, twenty, twenty- 
three. “Twenty-three is hard to beat," 
he said, serenely. 

From Major Gumble the box passed to 
Jerry Winkle. After a little flourish he 
rolled out four sixes. “That beats it, 
Major,” he laughed. 

The number of those who ventured was 
so large that the afternoon was nearly 
spent before the last one had tried his 
luck. Once the cast of four sixes was 
equalled and Jerry was called in from the 
porch to match his rival. Again he won, 
and drank at his opponent’s expense. He 
had been drinking during the day at al- 
most everybody’s expense, so that it was 
no wonder that his gait was becoming un- 
steady and his speech more rapid than 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. u 

coherent. “ Shame, aint it? ” commented 
John Bulow, one of the village trustees. 
“Jerry didn’t never have no head onto 
him: anyway not for licker.” 

When the sunset had faded and the deep 
shadows began to rest in the valley, the 
poor drunkard lay on a wooden settee on 
the tavern porch. The noise of carous- 
ing, the excitement of the raffle, had sub- 
sided. Something curious had happened, 
and from the manner of those who sur- 
rounded the prostrate, slumbering man in 
the growing dusk it was difficult to tell 
whether that something was a joke or a 
tragedy. 

“Hi, Jerry! wake up, shake yourself. 
The prizes has been named.” The 
sleeper growled something but refused to 
be awakened. 

“ Who beat? ” asked a late-comer, step- 
ping in from the road at that moment. 

“Jerry Winkle, here, drawed first cut 
and got the biggest card.” 


12 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


“ What’d he draw? ” 

“ Why, you see,” the spokesman looked 
around as though he suspected that the 
matter might have a humorous side to it, 
and waited to catch any one laughing: 
“ you see he’s ben an’ drawed — oh, blast 
it all, / can’t tell ye, it’s too redeeklous; ” 
and here he began to laugh, the others 
joining in. The absurd inconsistency of 
what they knew to be coming captured 
the imagination of that audience, and the 
more they guffawed and shouted over it 
the funnier it seemed. At last the noise 
they made partially aroused the sleeper. 
“Wha’ish th’ mat?” he mumbled, feebly. 
“Why, Jerry,” gasped the Major; “Jerry, 
you drunken reperbate you, you’ve ben 
an’ drawed the church .” 

Toddville had had a church once, but 
its organization lapsed, and the building, 
long mortgaged, had gone to the hammer 
and sold for a song. This was the prize 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 13 

that Jerry Winkle had gambled for, sworn 
over, got drunk about, and won. There 
it stood, down in the valley, its white 
clapboarded sides gleaming dully in the 
twilight. Will Dorset, the last-comer, 
did not join in the general mirth as he 
looked first at the unconscious owner and 
then at the newly acquired property. 

The news of the raffle and its result 
spread like wildfire. Country places have 
no need for newspapers. News travels 
across lots and up lanes and over fences 
with a celerity that nothing but its growth 
can equal for marvellousness. Anent Jerry 
and his church. “It was a shame.” The 
’Squire, to whom Will had reported the 
matter, said so, and the sentiment was 
echoed by the best people in that little 
community. But neither the verdict of 
the more conservative towns-people, 
neither the dictum of those who had lost 
their right to conduct the church’s affairs, 


J 4 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


nor the scoffing of the stranger within the 
village gates could alter the incongruous 
fact. 

On the Sunday following the raffle Jerry 
was on his way to witness a ball match 
which was to take place in a lot two miles 
down the valley. He paused in passing 
the church, and looked at his big posses- 
sion with a feeling that was part pride and 
part shame. 

“That there church is mine,” he 
thought. “ But I ain’t no sort to own a 
church neither.” He went around and 
inspected the sheds. “ Good sheds, too,” 
he soliloquized. He tried the basement 
door. It was locked. “ Wonder who in 
creation has got the key ? Kinder funny, 
too, not to know where the key to a man’s 
own church is.” Next he essayed to open 
a window. The nail which had fastened 
the sash down fell out and it yielded to 
his vigorous push. With somewhat the 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


5 


feeling of a burglar he clambered in and 
surveyed his property. There was the 
pulpit, with well-worn cushion, where old 
Domine Rees had long ago pounded and 
expounded. Jerry could well remember 
how, when he was a little boy, he had 
used to sit in one of the pews and dangle 
his short legs as he squirmed under that 
ponderous eloquence. That pew on the 
north aisle, just under the window, was 
the one that had belonged to his people. 
He seated himself there, where his father 
had sat, and reaching out his hand to the 
book-rack took therefrom the old hymn- 
book. It had “Jacob Winkle, Esqr.” 
written in bold characters across the fly- 
leaf. Jerry had worn his hat during these 
first few moments of occupancy. He now 
took it off and placed it on the seat in 
front of him. As he did so the whimsi- 
cal aspect of the proceeding struck him 
so that he laughed aloud. Then hushed 


1 6 THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 

in spite of himself by the cold echo of his 
own mirth, he looked nervously around. 
At the moment he could almost have 
sworn that the old audience-room was 
full of the old worshippers looking at him, 
the intruder, in condemnation. 

It was broad daylight, and the empty 
place, even with its shutters closed, af- 
forded no suggestive shadows where a 
ghost might lurk, yet in its Sabbath still- 
ness it was populous. Across the aisle 
was where the minister’s family used to 
sit. Up yonder by the pulpit, still stood 
the chair once occupied by the gray- 
haired precentor. It was easy to picture 
his tall form, clad in the clawhammer coat 
and voluminous stock of an older time, as 
he rose, book in hand, to “ raise the tune.” 
Over the whole room was that pervading, 
peculiar atmosphere that long-disused 
apartments often have ; not mouldy, nor 
close, nor damp, but obsolete. There was 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


17 

a distinct flavor of antiquity about it, as 
though the last sexton when he shut the 
big door for the last time, had shut in a 
fragment of that year. 

Beside the new proprietor, stuck be- 
tween the cushion and pew-back, was a 
large palm-leaf fan. It had his mother’s 
name written in faint pencil lines upon 
one of its radial divisions. 

Yesterday Jerry had thought to sell 
the building as old lumber, if nothing bet- 
ter offered ; perhaps put up a shanty of 
some sort for himself upon the site. But 
to-day the matter took a different aspect. 
He might almost as readily resolve to sell 
the modest tombstone that marked the 
last resting-place of his parents out there 
in the little graveyard. 

He rose with a start, intending to leave 
the building. There were people coming 
up the road ; so he waited till they had 
passed before climbing out again. Off in 


1 8 THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 

the distance he could hear the shouts 
that encouraged some batsman to make a 
home run. The game was in progress. 
For him to be absent would excite more 
comment than he cared to face just 
then. 

Reaching the field he lounged up to 
that angle of the snake fence where a 
group of rustic sportsmen had congre- 
gated, and received a running fire of greet- 
ing and comment. “ Hello, Jerry! jes' 
got up?” “Jerry, how’s the church?” 
“ When you goin’ to begin preachin’ ? ” 

The poor fellow’s new relation to the 
big building up the valley had at last been 
generally accepted as ludicrous. 

“Jerry wouldn’t jine the church so the 
church had to jine Jerry.” This from one 
of the wits. Another added: “ Like the 
ole man in the tale that wanted the 
mountain. Mountain wouldn’t come to 
the ole man, so the ole man had to mosey 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


i9 


along to the mountain, as the feller 
sez.” 

The subject of these remarks did not 
enjoy them. The influence of his recent 
quiet half-hour in the church was still 
strong upon him. He could not summon 
his usual ready wit to answer jibe with 
jibe ; so he turned his attention to the 
game and was soon among the loudest 
of those who encouraged the players. 

“ Should think you’d be ashamed of 
yourself, Jerry, a-spendin’ your Sunday 
this way when youv’e got a hull meetin’- 
house of your own ! ” said one, joking 
him. Jerry swung half round, supporting 
himself on the arm of one of his compan- 
ions. “ You shet up,” he responded. “ I 
had ’nuf of that. Some folks have got 
neither church nor releegion.” Those 
who laughed most heartily at this retort 
were careful to keep farthest away from 
an arm that they knew was still powerful ; 


20 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


but after his outburst Jerry became sul- 
len and silent. 

As time passed people began to notice 
and comment upon a change in this man. 
It was not that he was better than before 
only less companionable and enjoyable. 
If anything he was drunk oftener — only 
he drank in a morose, unsociable way that 
his friends could not understand. He did 
not swear less than he had always done, 
but his conversation between whiles was 
less entertaining. His very hat lost the 
jolly, agressive air which had distin- 
guished it and sat soddenly on the back 
of his head. Men act so when they are 
in love or in debt, and sometimes when 
they are in arrears to conscience. 

One thing he would not do if it was 
possible to avoid it — pass the church 
alone after nightfall. In daytime it was 
bad enough. Since his visit it had seemed 
more and more the harboring place for a 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


21 


band of reproachful spirits, who saw his 
character and course in its naked ugliness 
— as he was beginning to see it himself. 

No doubt the special direction of his 
imagination was due rather to whiskey 
than sober conscience. The effect was 
not less real. He made, in his walks^ 
long detours, crossing fields and sneaking 
along fences till the dreaded spot was 
avoided. 

Yet wherever he went he could not get 
rid of the sight of the white box that 
stood in lieu of a spire, and which always 
seemed to be saying to him, “ What a 
disgrace to me you are ! ” He tried to sell 
it, but, partly no doubt because he hated 
so to talk about it, he failed to find a 
purchaser who wanted a meeting-house 
anyhow. If it had been a cow or a horse, 
or even a good bull-dog of fighting stock, 
he might have done better. But a 
church ! As long as it stood there it was 


•22 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


impossible to get even the worth of the 
little piece of ground it stood upon. Peo- 
ple do not attach much value to a few 
feet of soil in a country where farms are 
measured by the hundred acres. It be- 
came, with its memories, its traditions, its 
sanctity, a Nemesis always w T atching his 
unsteady footsteps. 

At last he resolved to put an end to 
his torment. He would destroy the 
church. 

One starlight night, having brooded 
long over this purpose, Winkle started 
out to put it in execution. Making a wide 
circuit, to avoid meeting any one who 
might be travelling upon the highway, 
he stole cautiously across the meadow 
toward his property. He had provided 
himself with a bundle of straw well-satu- 
rated with oil, and this he carried in his 
arms, so that it was with difficulty he 
could pick his way. He stumbled across 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


2 3 


a ploughed field to the fence row of elms, 
and kept well in their shadow till he had 
gained the brook with its bordering wall 
of moving willows. This he skirted, ap- 
proaching the burying-ground. That had 
not entered into his calculations. There 
lay the very people the recollection of 
whom had made the building unbearable 
to him. For a long time he crouched 
down in the shade, hugging his bundle of 
inflammable stuff close, and staring at the 
few white, irregular stones that seemed to 
do sentry duty for the great, square, va- 
cant house beyond them. “ That is where 
my father and my grandfather lie,” was 
the thought that forced itself in on his 
mind. “ There is where I shall be, too, 
some day, in the old churchyard.” And 
quickly followed the reflection that when 
the church was gone the churchyard would 
be naught. 

In haste now, perhaps because the night 


24 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


air or some other chill was making it dif- 
ficult to keep his teeth from chattering, or 
perhaps because he doubted the strength of 
his resolution, he piled the straw against 
one corner and placed a lighted match un- 
der it. 

An opportune gust of wind fanned the 
the flame into instant blaze, lighting for 
a moment the white clapboards upon 
which the paint was beginning to crack 
and peel in places, illuminating the sheds 
and even casting a glory upon the faces 
of the carven marble cherubs on the 
graveyard stones. But had any other 
spectator been there he would have been 
most struck with the look upon the incen- 
diary’s face. Swift repentance, self-hate, 
condemnation of his own evil deed, lined it 
with an expression of lively remorse that 
the dancing light served to intensify. 

Then with a spring he threw himself 
upon the blazing heap and tore it away, 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


2 5 


trampling it under foot, scorching and 
scarring himself (as we most of us have 
done) in the effort to undo the mischief 
he had begun. 

One Monday morning Mrs. Busbee was 
standing by her clothes-lines, basket at 
foot, learning the latest news from Liza 
Jane Green, who had just run over with 
her budget. 

“ An’ it’s the queerest thing. They ain’t 
no sense into some men. What d’ you 
s’pose ever led him to go away that fash- 
ion, ’thout ever sayin’ ay, yes, or no to 
any of his folks ? I ben down at his 
aunt’s house an’ she say she's satisfied ’t ’s 
’bout the bes’ thing and the sensibles’ 
thing he ever did.” 

“ They do say he ain’t been quite right 
in his upper story sense he drawed the 
church in that there raffle, which I claim 
was about the redic’lousest thing a body 
ever hear tell about.” 


26 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


“ Right er wrong, he’s gone clean away 
out o’ this place, an’ I d’no but what his 
aunt’s mor’ 'n half right. He ain’t but 
small loss.” 

At the tavern, at the store, down by 
the blacksmith’s forge the same topic 
was variously discussed. Before the 
raffle Jerry had been a popular man with 
a certain class of people, and his sudden 
departure consequently created a wider 
ripple of excitement than yours or mine, 
dear reader, might cause in our commu- 
nity. For a few days his memory was 
kept green, then his name was occasion- 
ally mentioned in a reminiscent way, and 
at last his old-time cronies found it nec- 
essary to preface any story in which he 
figured with the formula, “You remem- 
ber Jerry Winkle what used to live here ; 
the same one that drawed the church ? ” 

At length the place that had known 
him well, and knew little good of him, 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


2 7 


seemed to know him no more. Once, in- 
deed, a statement was made by a sales- 
man who came in his yearly round to the 
place, that he had seen Jerry running a 
“ wheel ” at a county fair ; but that may 
have been error, or malice, or simple 
mendacity. He had faded out of the vil- 
lage life completely. But the church re- 
mained and our story henceforth has to 
do with it. 

What had become of its owner no one 
knew ; that is to say, no one but Squire 
Dorset, and he laid out money for the 
necessary paint and repairs, and paid 
the taxes when they were due, without 
ever betraying his principal ; for no one 
doubted that he was simply acting as an 
agent in the matter. There was not the 
slightest suspicion that the Squire had 
purchased the property. He had been 
an intimate friend of our reprobate’s 
father, and he had, perhaps, on that ac- 


28 


THE TODD VILLE RAFFLE. 


count exerted himself to find a purchaser 
for the son. 

But if such was the case the Squire 
was certainly a most exemplary agent. 
He not only kept the exterior of the edi- 
fice in good condition, but he busied him- 
self as well with the interior, so that the 
broken benches were repaired, the pulpit 
furniture furbished up, and even the walls 
whitewashed. In fact, as though having 
faith in the dawn of a better day for 
Toddville, the Squire — or rather, that un- 
known some one whom the Squire repre- 
sented — kept the Lord’s house ready for 
occupancy. 

Once in a while, it is true, his neigh- 
bors shook their heads and whispered 
strange things about the Squire. He 
was getting to be an old man, and it was 
more than intimated that he was not 
without the childishness of age. The 
church had been the cause of one man’s 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


29 


unaccountable behavior, and now it really 
seemed as though — well, at any rate, 
there was no sense in spending good 
money for such an object. Some very 
zealous friends, after thoroughly canvass- 
ing the matter among themselves, actu- 
ally summoned courage to advise young 
Dorset, the Squire’s son, to put the old 
man under restraint. Young Dorset 
rather surprised his advisers by the readi- 
ness with which he listened to the sugges- 
tion. 

“ I only see one way to do that,” he re- 
plied, quietly, “ and that is to employ a 
keeper to go around with him.” 

It is wonderful the interest that we 
take in our neighbor’s misfortunes. In 
twenty-four hours all Toddville knew 
that Will Dorset thought his father ought 
to have a keeper. “ The ole man must 
be a heap sight wuss ’n we any of us 
ca’c’lated,” observed Jackson. 


3 ° 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


Not long after this a buggy drove up 
to the Squire’s door and a quiet-looking, 
rather powerfully built man alighted. 
He was met by Will Dorset. They went 
quickly into the house together. 

For a day or two no one had a chance 
to interview the Squire’s son, but at last 
Major Gumble “jes’ took the bull by 
t’ other horn, sir,” and stopped him on 
the road. 

“ How’s your father, Will ? ” 

“Oh, he’s pretty well, considering.” 

“ I wanted to ask you, Will, whether 
that there was the — h’m— the pusson you 
was speakin’ about.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the young man. “You 
may call him a sort of keeper, I guess. 
He is a sort of keeper.” 

The new keeper seemed to humor his 
charge in every possible way. It is a 
trick that these skilled persons have of 
keeping their patients from actual out- 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


3i 


break. And of course everybody was 
mightily interested. Really the old gen- 
tleman seemed harmless enough, only 
some of his acts were amusing. For in- 
stance, on the Saturday following the 
advent of his attendant he was seen 
busily tacking up notices on the trees at 
every prominent point and cross-road 
within a radius of three miles from the 
church. These notices read : 

“ There will be Divine service to-mor- 
row (Sunday, June 12,) in the church at 
Toddville, at half-past ten o’clock.” 

People read, grinned, and passed on. 

But, supposing that the notices might 
indicate some new phase of mania which 
nobody wanted to miss, when ten o’clock 
drew near there was a large crowd gath- 
ered on the road in front of the church. 
Nor was their coming bootless. Just 
before the hour arrived the writer of the 
notices appeared, attended as usual by 


3 2 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


his keeper. Together they entered the 
church, after a brief whispered dialogue, 
during which the stranger seemed to ex- 
postulate and the Squire to insist upon 
some point he was urging. The crowd 
followed. 

Squire Dorset walked steadily to his 
old pew and reverently bowed his head 
there. The keeper made directly for 
the pulpit, stood for a moment waiting 
for the rustle and bustle of the incoming 
congregation to subside, as, with the 
force of old custom, all found seats, and 
then gave out the opening hymn : 

“God moves in a mysterious way.” 

Fairly trapped, the people of Toddville 
joined in the singing, bowed their heads 
in at least the semblance of worship, and 
listened to the sermon. 

When they finally dispersed, light on 
more than one subject began to break 


THE TODDVILLE RAFFLE. 


33 


upon their understandings. Has the 
reader also guessed the conclusion ? 

The Rev. Jeremiah Winkle had come 
home to his church. 


I 


$ 


A 




ZENAS SMITH’S RIDE TO ROX- 
BURY. 


Lost on Saturday, the third of this instant March, 
between five and ten of the clock in the morning, 
five Johannes’ or Josephus’s, or both, loose out of 
my pocket, between my dwelling-house in Abington 
and the widow Susanna Richardson’s in Roxbury. 
Whoever shall take up said pieces of money and 
will give information to the printers hereof, or to 
the subscriber, shall have ten dollars reward, or two 
dollars for each piece, paid by me the subscriber. 

Zenas Smith. 

Abington, March 5, 1770. 

This advertisement appeared in the 
Boston Gazette of March 12, 1770, just 
one week after it was dated. The edito- 
rial and news columns of that issue of 


36 ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

Messrs. Edes and Gill’s journal were 
filled with accounts of the Boston Mas- 
sacre and the indignation meetings conse- 
quent, while broad, black margin lines 
and a row of black coffins in illustration 
supplemented the horrors of the letter- 
press. 

Who was Zenas Smith of Abington, 
and what was the reason of his long jour- 
ney to Roxbury ? I may picture him 
pretty closely by focusing the lines of the 
advertisement. Zenas was doubtless well 
to do. The man who owned a house in 
Abington, and carried a pocketful of gold 
pieces, — carried them “ loose in his 
pocket,” — was certainly not going to Sus- 
anna Richardson’s for cold victuals or old 
clothes. The value of a Johannes of 
Portugal or Brazil was seventeen dollars 
and six cents (Webster gives it as eight 
dollars, but this contradicts Emerson’s 
table) ; the Josephus may have been a 


ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 37 

popular name for dobra or doubloon, one 
worth twenty-four cents more, and the 
other a dollar and four cents less, than a 
Johannes : so it becomes evident that 
Zenas’s loss was not less than eighty and 
probably more than eighty-five dollars, 
with a possibility of its having been 
eighty-six and a half. I have been very 
explicit in making the statement, because 
I think it proves that the advertiser was 
not pinched for money, and disposes of 
the idea that he may have gone to the 
widow for pecuniary aid. The same ar- 
gument forbids the supposition that he 
was an artisan or tradesman. An artisan 
would not have had what was a large 
sum for that day “ loose in his pocket ” 
as he went to his work, and a tradesman, 
if well to do, probably would have sent 
an employee. That this man was not 
himself an employee is, I think, shown by 
his signature. No clerk would advertise 


38 ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

over his own name the loss of his employ- 
er’s money, even supposing that he car- 
ried such sums of it with him. Nor can 
we suppose that he was a landlord mak- 
ing collections, though it was upon the 
Saturday succeeding the end of the 
month that the loss occurred, for the sum 
which he lost would have paid the 
monthly rent of a larger and more pala- 
tial house than Roxbury contained, and 
it was not yet time for the quarterly or 
half yearly rent ; he would have waited 
till May for that. Besides, he speaks of 
Susanna Richardson’s house in a way 
that convinces us that it was her own 
house. Nor was Zenas a tenant. The 
idea of his being out at five o’clock, on a 
raw March morning, upon a road that has 
never lost its reputation for blusteriness, 
to pay his rent or to pay any other debt, 
is preposterous. 

On March 3d the sun rose about 6.30 ; 


ZEN AS SMITH’S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 39 

that is to say, one hour and a half after 
Mr. Smith was on his way to the widow’s. 
It was an early start for a business man, 
and much too early for one who had no 
business. His confessed ignorance of 
the exact denomination of the pieces of 
gold that he had in his pocket and the 
certainty with which he states their num- 
ber go to show that he had counted out 
five coins, of about the same size and 
weight, before he started, and that he 
had done this in the dark. There was 
no doubt in his mind that he lost five 
gold coins, and that these pieces were 
either “ Johannes’ or Josephus’s, or both ” 
(notice how carefully he words that state- 
ment), but he had no idea which. If he 
had said four or five, or had in any other 
way shown a careless habit of memory, 
we might believe that he had carried 
those pieces for a few days, and had for- 
gotten exactly what they were ; but this 


4 o ZEN AS SMITH’S EWE TO ROXBURY. 

definiteness gives one an idea of method 
and forehandedness. Or if the pieces in 
question had been all of his store of 
wealth, we could not conceive how it 
would be possible for him to be unable to 
state within the price of a new saddle 
how much he possessed. 

No ; we see a capitalist, a man of 
wealth, rising long before daylight to go 
upon a journey of twelve or fourteen 
miles on a March morning, along a road 
exposed for a great part of its length to 
all the fury of March winds. We see 
him open the strong box where he has 
placed the wealth which colonial troubles 
make it unwise to leave, in a banker’s 
hands. He takes from that repository 
five gold coins, running his fingers over 
them to be sure that they are of about 
the same value, and places them loose in 
his pocket. He will have use for a sum 
equal to eighty dollars. During this time 


ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 41 

no light has been struck, because the 
clicking of the steel and the flare of the 
light might attract the attention of some 
evil prowler, who would in turn visit the 
box after Zenas’s departure. 

But now the first difficult question 
arises. Did he ride or walk to Roxbury ? 
I incline to believe he walked only as far 
as his own stable, and, having saddled 
his steady, respectable cob, jogged out 
upon the highway on four legs instead of 
two. In the first place, no man of stand- 
ing in a country town could, at that day, 
be without a horse. In the second place, 
no man having a horse would start off 
before daylight to walk twelve miles in 
such weather, leaving the locality out of 
the question. In the third place, a man 
would have walked twelve miles in less 
than five hours. It takes a careful horse, 
picking his way in the dark, to travel as 
slowly as that. 


42 ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

We know that the nag was sober and 
sedate, as we know that his master was 
middle-aged, plethoric, and practical, be- 
cause we read that between the lines of 
his advertisement. Would a young man, 
or a lean man, or an imaginative man, 
have mentioned the widow Richardson’s 
house ? Would not such a man have 
written simply, “ Between my house and 
the Roxbury postoffice,” or, “ Between 
Abington and Roxbury?” Would a 
married man have mentioned the widow 
Susanna Richardson’s, or a man who had 
anything to conceal ? And would a man, 
staid and honest and stout enough to ad- 
vertise so frankly, ride anything but a 
steady-going nag, do you think ? This 
man had no idea of gossip or scandal, 
and therefore we infer that he was a 
bachelor. We have further evidence of 
his single estate in the fact that he 
offered an exorbitant reward to the per- 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 43 

son who should return his money, and 
because he published that reference to 
the widow. Even a middle-aged, stout, 
and unimaginative man would think 
twice about putting such testimony where 
his wife could see it. 

Now it will be jnoticed that the fact of 
such a man having lost his money shows 
that he was unduly excited, pleasantly or 
otherwise, so that he became careless. 
The time consumed on the road was too 
great for us to imagine that the cob trot- 
ted at all, but the wind may have blown 
the skirts of the sober brown coat till the 
golden shower fell unnoticed from the 
ample pocket, as it learned to do when it 
first shook the chestnuts down; while 
Zenas pulled his three-cornered hat closer 
over his square forehead, and thought — of 
what? Of the widow, doubtless. But no 
one can suppose that it was as a lover he 
thought. His business must have been of 


44 ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

a pressing nature, such as he could not 
entrust to another, and, though one re- 
quiring money to a considerable amount, 
not a transaction between debtor and cred- 
itor, or one involving property directly. 
He was evidently going as a friend, for 
he carried hard, tangible proofs of ^friend- 
ship with him (until he lost them), and as 
a friend whose services were needed at 
once and urgently, — a trusted and dis- 
creet friend. Yet it is possible that I am 
in error when I say that he did not think 
as a lover. It is only safe to affirm that 
his message was not to make love at this 
time, and we have no business with feel- 
ings that have no connection with the 
text. 

That Zenas so promptly attended to 
this affair, regardless of what the world 
might say, certainly proves an unusual 
warmth of devotion on his part, — a devo- 
tion which doubtless tempered the March 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 45 

winds as he rode out of his door-yard at 
Abington. 

We surmise what the widow’s trouble 
may have been, as we read upon another 
page of the Gazette reference to one 
Richardson, described as “infamous,” 
who “fired the gun which killed young 
Snyder; ” his name being also connected 
with the assassination of Mr. Otis. The 
murder of Snyder and the assassination 
(that is to say, attempted killing) of James 
Otis took place but a short time before 
that quarrel between the rope-makers 
and the Ninth Regiment of British regu- 
lars which led to the massacre of Crispus 
Attucks and his companions, which we 
know as the Boston Massacre. So clear 
it is that the ride to Roxbury occurred be- 
tween the time of Richardson’s act and 
that of the resistance of the Bostonians, 
that we cannot avoid suspecting that 
Dame Richardson’s trouble may have 


46 ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

been the result of that of her name- 
sake. 

If the sympathies of Mr. Smith had 
been with Richardson and the custom- 
house party, he would hardly have adver- 
tised his loss in the Gazette, which was a 
mouthpiece for the colonial party, and 
bitter in its denunciations of the Royal- 
ists. As an illustration of the fever of 
indignation at one side and sympathy 
with the other, it may be mentioned that, 
after a full description of the death of 
Crispus Attucks, who was a negro, and of 
his burial in the middle cemetery of Bos- 
ton, the Gazette prints the usual weekly 
statistics as follows: — 

“ Buried in the town of Boston since 
our last, eight whites, no black.” 

The negro who died in such a cause 
was not black, from the Gazette’s stand- 
point. 

Hardly would the sympathizer with 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 4 j 

Richardson have advertised in that pa- 
per. But it is not at all unlikely that 
he may have been a ready advancer of 
funds to his friend the widow. 

If Richardson was really the man for 
whom these funds were ultimately in- 
tended, he must have been still alive 
(though perhaps on trial for his life) ; 
and if alive, then the son of the widow, 
— else she was no widow. Or it is very 
possible that some other form of trouble 
menaced her ; it may have been foreclos- 
ure of a mortgage upon her property. In 
any case, we may be sure that her sad 
face lighted as she saw the square chin of 
Zenas Smith resting on his stock, his 
ruddy cheeks a little ruddier from his ride, 
and his benevolent gray eyes full of a 
kindly purpose, as he tied the sober nag 
by the door of her house in Roxbury. 

Then Zenas put his hand down into his 
right pocket, into its mate, into each of 


4 S ZEN AS SMITH’S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

his pockets successively, and his face 
grew pale. He tried again, the widow 
watching him anxiously, till at last he 
could conceal the sad truth no longer, 
and blurted out, — 

“ Susanna, I’ve been a fool. This morn- 
ing I put five Johanneses or Josephuses 
or both, loose in my pocket, and I have 
lost them on the road hither.” 

Then, if they were Quakers, as I sus- 
pect they were, Susanna answered him : 

“ Now don’t thee mind, Zenas. I 
make no doubt it will all be well in the 
end, and thee had better come in and 
get some breakfast, after such a long 
ride.” 

It may be she said that in all the sim- 
plicity of affection, and it is just barely 
possible that she may have had an ink- 
ling at the same time of more Johanneses 
or Josephuses, “or both,” in the strong- 
box at Abington. 


ZEN AS SMITH’S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 49 

Of one thing we may be sure : Zenas 
enjoyed his breakfast with such an appe- 
tite as only an early ride can give one ; 
and if the widow in the end won some- 
thing even more substantial than a few 
gold pieces, I am sure that no one will 
accuse her of setting her cap for any one. 
For my part, I never see or hear of a per- 
son named Susanna Smith without won- 
dering whether I have guessed this riddle 
aright, and longing to ask her who her 
great-grandparents were. 

* * * 

My sister Martha worked up the fore- 
going account, which she calls a pure 
piece of detective work, with the facts 
left out. I have frequently told Martha 
that accuracy is not incompatible with a 
historian’s work, but she cites, in support 
of her method, a list of names which be- 
gins with Plutarch and does not end with 
Froude. 


5 o ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

Nevertheless, I resolved that I would 
discover something definite, if only that 
there w T ere no bottom facts in the case. 
As a result of my investigations in one 
quarter, I received one day a chocolate- 
colored envelope, addressed in green ink, 
and bearing in the upper left-hand corner 
this legend in red : 

State Library of Massachusetts, 
State House, Boston, July 8. 18 — . 

It was a note from the very polite Act- 
ing Assistant Librarian, assuring me that 
he could find no trace of public man, au- 
thor, or criminal who had signalized the 
name of Zenas Smith in the common- 
wealth, but that possibly the Recorder’s 
office might produce deeds or other data 
that would furnish a clue. So I tried the 
Recorder’s office ; but so far as the ob- 
ject of my search was concerned its ar- 
chives were barren. From the Recorder’s 


ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 51 

Second Assistant Acting Deputy came, 
however, the consoling hint that people 
often found in church records information 
that the public books lacked. I at once 
turned to the church for consolation ; but 
though a carefully worded note of inquiry 
was type-written, and copies sent to all 
the pastors of every probable denomina- 
tion in Abington, I failed here also. The 
conclusion was forced upon me that either 
Zenas was not fond of gathering himself 
together with the people of Zion, or that 
the old church records of that town had 
been badly kept ; so there was a fresh 
discouragement to vex over. But Mar- 
tha’s mental energy did not flag. “ I 
am sure,” she observed, after a season of 
meditation, “ that Zenas must have in- 
vented something. No Yankee goes 
through life without doing so. And 
don’t you think, if he did invent it, he 
must have got it patented ? Certainly, 


52 ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

I don’t want to advise, but if I were you 
I should send to the Patent Office ; that 
is,” with a sudden return of the offend- 
ed-dignity air that she had forgotten for 
awhile, “ if you insist upon discrediting 
my solution.” 

Of course I adopted this plan, writing 
that same evening ; but after the letter 
had been sent I began to question the 
sanity of such a step, telling my sister 
that I did not believe the Patent Office 
had been running so long. Time proved 
the justice of this doubt. I got a reply 
stating that I “ must apply to some other 
department for the information I 
wanted.” There was a Zebedee Smith 
who had invented a churn, and a Zebulon 
Smith who had patented a sewing ma- 
chine, — but no Zenas. 

I next tried libraries. No obscure cor- 
ner of history escaped me. I learned 
more about the war for independence 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 53 

and the causes which led to it than I 
ever dreamed of knowing. Among the 
two millions who inhabited America at 
that time, about the only man who had 
escaped historical mention was Zenas 
Smith. 

“ I tell you what,” said Martha. 

“ Well, my dear ? ” 

“ Send a letter to Zenas himself.” 

“ But where — his address — ” 

“ Send it ” — and her face lighted with a 
sudden inspiration — “ to the dead-letter 
office.” 

As one sometimes concludes a serious 
matter with a joke, and thus whimsically 
acknowledges defeat, I did as advised, 
and addressed a petition, full of moving 
pleas that he would drop his incognito, to 
“Zenas Smith, Esq., Dead-Letter Office, 
P. O., Washington, D. C.” 

In the course of a week I received a re- 
ply. This was signed by Zenas Smith. 


54 ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

He wanted to know who I was, any way, 
and what particular reason I had for 
writing a humorous letter to him. Did I 
mean anything personal by it, and if not 
what did I mean? He said he was an old 
man and had been in the department a 
great many years, but this was the first 
time he had been the recipient of so much 
impertinence , — “ gratuitous impertinence,” 
he wrote. 

“An old man!” said Martha. “Well, I 
should think so.” 

“Can you recall what I wrote to him?” 
I asked sadly; realizing that the stone I 
threw just for fun had smashed some- 
body’s window. 

“Why, yes. You asked him how he 
managed to ‘cover his tracks,’ — that was 
the rather slangy way you expressed it; 
and then you wanted to know whether he 
had ever done anything in the world but 
lose gold Johannes’s. Besides that, you 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 55 

couldn’t leave out that threadbare joke 
about the climate where he had been living 
last, and — oh, you asked him what part 
he took in the battle of Lexington.” 

“ Of course I did. If there had been 
any other utterly absurd thing to do or 
say, I should have added just that much 
to my folly. And now what am I to say 
to this gentleman?” 

“ This — gentleman? ” 

“Certainly. We have by accident 
found some one of the same name as the 
man who inserted that advertisement.” 

“Then you may be sure he is a rela- 
tive. No one but a relative would ever 
have thought of having such a name. I 
would write to him again, if I were you, 
and get all the information possible. He 
may not really be as cross as — as he 
sounds.” 

“I shall undoubtedly write again,” I 
answered, perhaps a little tartly, “because 


56 ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

it will be necessary to apologize and ex- 
plain; otherwise I would let Zenas Smith 
and all his relations go to Jericho.” 

My letter to the old gentleman (who, 
I could not but feel, was distinguishing 
himself by the use of a name he had no 
business with)was one of long explana- 
tion and almost abject apology; at least, so 
Martha told me. She also informed me 
that my dragging her name into my expla- 
nation had a biblical analogy: the woman 
tempted me, and I did write. But I let it 
stand. I did not wish Mr. Smith to mis- 
understand anything. 

I sent the letter this time to the address 
printed at the head of Mr. Smith’s letter, 
which was No. i, 2 £ Street. He must 
have got it very soon, for his answer came 
during the next evening. 

Dear Sir, — Apology accepted. Very natural mis- 
take. Have an old letter somewhere. Will com- 


ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 57 

municate further. If a historical account, will be 
glad to furnish anything in power. 

Yr. obdt. Servt., 

Z. Smith. 

“There!” said Martha. “Didn’t I say 
so?” 

“No, my dear, not that I heard; and if 
you will observe, this letter tells us abso- 
lutely nothing.” 

“Nothing? Read between the lines, as 
we did with the advertisement: doesn’t it 
say that he is a relative and rather eager 
to have his ancestor written up?” 

Astute Martha! 

In course of time a rather bulky pack- 
age came from Washington, and on being 
opened revealed three inclosures. One 
was a letter from Mr. Smith, putting at 
our disposal and commending to our care 
a second paper written by Zenas Smith, 
the earlier. The third sheet was one of 
memoranda. From this last we learned 


58 ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 

that Zenas was the great-grandfather of 
his namesake, and that he had been a sol- 
dier of the revolutionary war. 

“There?” exclaimed Martha, in vexa- 
tion. “We never thought of the Pension 
Department; though of course,” she 
added, “ it makes no real difference, as 
we have got all we want.” As she spoke 
she unfolded Zenas’s letter very rever- 
ently, and spread it out on the table be- 
fore us. The paper was yellow with age, 
and the ink dim but legible. Here is a 
copy of the letter: — 


Boston, 3/3, ’99. 

Dear Son, — You ask an explanation of the old 
cask found by you in the cellar of the Abington 
house. I think I can satisfy you on that head. 
You already know how the committee, of which 
Samuel Adams and Dr. Warren were the soul, used 
the time before matters came to a head with Great 
Britain in preparing for a conflict felt by all of us to 
be inevitable. We had recruits on every hand, 
and, so far as possible, stores, hidden on all the 


ZENAS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 59 


principal roads, and the members of the committee, 
of whom I was one, pledged themselves to keep 
their forces in readiness for an outbreak. We 
communicated by means of a sort of cipher, gener- 
ally using the public press for our enigmatical no- 
tices to each other, and found at that time the 
friendly attitude of the Boston Gazette of incalcu- 
lable service to us. Among the stores which I had 
caused to be secreted near the highway to Roxbury 
were five barrels of gunpowder, of several grades, 
but a very heavy storm on the morning of the 3d of 
March (just twenty-nine years ago to day) flooded 
the cellar where the ammunition was, and so dam- 
aged it that we could not save above an eighth of 
the entire quantity. This was removed by night to 
my house as being a safer and drier place, and bur- 
ied there in the cellar in a substantial cask. I noti- 
fied the committee of the loss through the usual 
channel, and there the matter ended, for after the 
battle of Breed’s (or, as you now call it, Bunker’s- 
Hill) I was absent on service elsewhere and the 
gunpowder was forgotten. This is, in brief, the 
history of the cask you inquire about. . . . 

From your aff. father, 

Zenas Smith. 


6o ZEN AS SMITH'S RIDE TO ROXBURY. 


I looked at Martha to see how she 
took it. 

“ That quite upsets your little ro- 
mance,” I said. 

She was silent for a few moments, and 
then, with apparent irrelevancy, replied, 
“ How much Mr. Z. Smith of Washington 
writes like his great-grandfather ! ” 


SQUARING AN OLD 
ACCOUNT. 


Two men sat together in the rear seat 
of a smoking car on one of our railroads 
and chatted familiarly of the ups and 
downs of a miner’s life, the topic being 
suggested by a landscape dotted with 
•coal-breakers and furrowed with coal 
roads. 

The freedom and interest of their con- 
versation did not seem to be damped by 
the fact that the younger of the two car- 
ried a revolver, while his companion wore 
a pair of those uncoveted articles of jew- 


62 SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 

elry which are known in criminal circles 
as “ bracelets.” 

The few passengers who had observed 
them learned from the confidential brake- 
man that they were a noted '“detective 
and his prisoner on the way to trial. As 
far as ages went, the pair might have 
been taken for father and son, the fine 
gray head of the one contrasting strongly 
with the crisp brown curls of his captor. 

What crime had been committed, the 
brakeman did not know, but hazarded a 
conjecture that it “must have been a 
pretty bad one, or George Munsen 
wouldn’t have took the trouble to put 
them things on his wrists.” 

Presently the brakeman and the con- 
ductor satisfied the joint demands of eti- 
quette and curiosity by stopping to ex- 
change a few words with the detective ; 
the former then perched himself upon the 
coal-box directly behind the prisoner, and 


SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 63 

» 

the latter dropped magnificently into the 
seat in front. The train was sweeping 
around a curve and past a ruined trestle 
on the hillside, at which both of the pas- 
sengers looked with some interest. 

“ I remember that place,” said the older 
man. 

“ So do I,” responded the younger ; “ I 
was born there. Came near being buried 
there, too,” he resumed, after a moment’s 
pause. 

“ How was that ? ” 

“ It’s a pretty long story,” said the de- 
tective, “but I guess we’ll have time for 
it between this and the next station. 
Way up there on the slope is the little 
settlement where I made my debut, so to 
speak ; from it to the bottom of the hill 
there used to be a gravity road — a long, 
winding track reaching from the settle- 
ment down to the top of a blank wall of 
earth where a slide occurred the year I 


' 6 4 SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 

was born. On both sides of the track 
grew saplings that had sprung up since 
the disaster (what I am telling you hap- 
pened five years later), and they crowded 
the road and hung over the old rusty rails 
on which the coal cars used to run. You 
must remember that the houses were 
built near the mouth of the pit — that was 
one of the first mines worked in this 
country, and one of the first to be aban- 
doned. Time I am telling about, some 
men were walking up track, and a lot of 
children playing near the top, little dev’s, 
climbing in and out of an old car which 
had lain there since it made its last trip, 
with the broken spraggs still in its 
wheels. 

“ The men were miners, all but one of 
them, who questioned his companion 
about their work and the country they 
lived in. He was evidently a stranger — 
probably a newspaper man. 


SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 


65 


“ Presently, as they talked, a shout 
from the top of the slope attracted their 
attention, and theydooked up just in time 
to see the car begin to move slowly down 
the grade. 

“There was an impatient exclamation 
from the oldest man in the party. 
1 Them brats is always up to some mis- 
chief,’ he said. 1 They have started that 
old thing off at last ; I’ve been expectin’ 
to see it go any time this five year. 
They’ll be breaking their necks yet with 
their tomfooling.’ And another of the 
group added : ‘We must dust out of this 
lively, unless we want to get our own 
necks broke ; she’ll -either jump the rail 
or go to pieces at the bottom ; lucky 
there ain’t no one aboard of her.’ 

“The stranger was looking anxiously 
up at the approaching runaway. His 
quick eye had caught sight of something 
round and golden above the black rim. 


66 SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 

“ ‘ There’s a child in that car,’ he said, 
quietly. 

“ It was a second or two before his 
companions realized the awful meaning 
of that statement. A child ! That was, 
as if he had said that in a few moments 
some one — perhaps one of themselves — 
would be childless. 

“ With one impulse they turned to look 
at the broken rails by the edge of the 
fault. Shuddering, they fixed their eyes 
again on the approaching mass, then 
hopelessly on each other. They could 
not dream of stopping the progress of 
the car. But quick as thought, almost, 
the stranger took hold of a sapling and 
bent it down till it nearly touched the 
track. ‘ Hold it,’ he said, to one of the 
men ; ‘it will help to check her.’ A rod 
further down another and then a third 
and fourth were held in the same way. 
So four of the party waited for a few 


SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 67 

breathless seconds, while the two remain- 
ing ones hurried further down ; but one 
more effort and the car was upon them. 
The first obstacle was whipped out of the 
hands of the strong man who held it and 
the car rushed on to the second with 
scarcely lessened force. Again, the 
barrier was brushed aside, but this time 
the speed of the old wreck was percepti- 
bly less. By the time the fifth obstruc- 
tion was reached the new comer was able 
to clamber aboard and throw the child 
into the arms of his companion, but be- 
fore he had time to save himself the old 
truck had regained something of its mo- 
mentum and was plunging on towards 
the precipice. 

“Well, the man jumped just as they 
reached the edge, just before his vehicle 
shot over into the air, but he had very 
little time to choose his ground, and so 
landed, as luck would have it, on the only 


68 SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 

heap of stones in sight. The others 
picked him up for dead, and carried him 
up to the settlement, where the miners 
held a regular wake over him. But he 
came to life in the middle of the festiv — , 
the obsequies, I mean — and it was found 
that he was only crippled for life. 

“The miners, folks not easily moved, 
were enthusiastic about the affair, and 
gave such testimonials as they could, to 
show their gratitude and appreciation. 
One of these expressions took the form of 
a souvenir, signed by every man in the 
place and stating in very grandiloquent 
language what the poor fellow had done. 
His quick wit seemed to them more won- 
derful than his courage and devotion, in 
a community where neither quality is un- 
usual at all. 

“The man who takes his own life in 
his hand every day, and has frequently to 
fight for the life of some companion, 


SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 69 

values a ‘ brainy ’ action. In the box 
with the testimonial was a purse of fifty 
dollars and a curious old gold cross, that 
had been treasured by the mother of the 
lad who was saved, as her one piece of 
finery. On it was rudely engraved these 
words : 

“ ‘ Given by the miners at the Notch to the 
man who risked his life for a child.' 

“ That w*as all. The poor fellow went 
away and would have been forgotten, 
only that the old miners told the story 
sometimes to their children.” 

The prisoner was looking out of the 
window. The conductor rustled around 
as though ashamed of the interest he had 
shown in the story — a story which he did 
not doubt was pure fiction. Only the 
brakeman gave way to his sympathy, and 
asked whether the man had ever been 
found. 

“Not that I know of,” replied the de- 
tective. 


70 SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 

“ And was you the boy what he 
saved ? ” 

“ I was the kid.” 

“And you never heer’d tell what be- 
came of the man — what would you do if 
you sh’d come acrost him sometime ? ” — 
Evidently the brakeman had an imagina- 
tion which was trying to assert itself. 

“ Oh ! I’d try to even the thing up 
somehow. I suppose common decency 
would demand that : I’d treat him as well 
as I knew how.” 

“ Look here,” said the prisoner, turn- 
ing from the window with an apparent 
effort to change a conversation which, 
for some reason, had not seemed to inter- 
est him — “ look here, old man, I’ve got a 
little keepsake that your story just re- 
minded me of, and if I could get at it I’d 
ask you to take charge of it for me till — 
till this is over. If you’ll put your hand 
in there and pull out that bit of ribbon : 
so — ” 


SQUARING AN OLD ACCOUNT. 71 

The conductor almost jumped out of 
his seat. “ Hang me if it ain’t the cross 
that you’ve just been telling about! ” he 
shouted. 

* * * 

A month later the detective was under- 
going a cross-examination by the conduc- 
tor and brakeman. 

“ Yes, he was a bad lot — oh, yes, he 
didn’t have a leg to stand upon ; the 
facts were all as clear as day. All true 
about the cross and the rest of it ? Just 
as true as gospel. What had he been do- 
ing ? Throwing bombs the last thing. * 
* * * Punished? Well, to tell you 

the truth, they won’t be apt to punish him 
till they catch him again, I guess. Fact 
is, he got away from me somehow that 
same night, Who, me ? Oh, no. I’m 
not on the force any more ; I’ve been 
bounced.” 




M c ROTTY’S VAN. 


The peddler’s horse jangled a string of 
tuneless bells as he walked. The peddler 
leaned forward, with his elbows resting on his 
knees and regarded, with the critical appre- 
ciation of a philosopher, the oscillations of 
the off fore-wheel. It was an old problem 
with him, how the wheel could bend in and 
out, making a track like a serpent, yet stick 
to its axis. 

It was just what McRotty had himself been 
doing all his life. He allowed himself a good 
deal of liberty of action around a centre of 
very decided principle. 

Little Hannah had crept into the box and 


74 


Me RO TTY'S VAN. 


had fallen asleep. Her guardian reached 
down and pulled an old ragged rug over her. 

“ Hannah looks peaked,” he said to him- 
self. “ I gotter have some sorter tonic for 
her. I wisht I knew what to do. This ridin’ 
around the country with me aint the best 
thing in the world for a sick child ; but I’m 
blessed if I know any better way.” 

Coming down the hill towards the old tan- 
nery pits where stood the cabin of Granny 
Brown, the reputed witch, he stopped Jake 
and began to count over the day’s receipts. 

“That’s ten cents for me, and a quarter 
for Hannah, and another for Jake and the 
purp. That’l leave a dollar for the old 
ooman, — I wish it would burn her — and a 
little for Susan in case her dad aint got any- 
thing, which it aint likely he has.” 

McRotty had many pensioners. If his 
stock was new he did not trouble himself for 
anything beyond the pressing needs of these. 
Having counted his cash, and put that in- 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 


75 


tended for Granny Brown by itself, he drew 
the cover down over the sleeping child so that 
she was hidden from view, and drove on to the 
cabin, to be met by shrill vituperation from 
the crone. All the miseries of age seemed to 
have settled in that poor, deformed old body, 
the reflex of which was in her ugly, distorted 
mind. 

A voice like a heron’s greeted the peddler 
With both trembling hands she grasped her 
staff and bent forward over it. Her colorless 
face, with its wrinkles and gibbous eyes, pro- 
truded from the meagre red folds of her shawl 
like a vulture’s head from its ruff. From the 
corners of her toothless mouth hung the pen- 
dulous jowls of an animal, making the old 
creature witch-like enough. 

“ Yes, I know ye. Coming around to see 
what else ye can steal. Where’s that child ? 
Where is she ! I want her, I say. Who’s to 
run errants, or to fetch me a bit of wood or 
a drop of water ? She’s mine and I want her 


76 Me RO TTY'S VAN. 

back !” she screamed, with senile insistance. 

Her quavering voice rose higher and shrill- 
er. The child in the van quaked as she re- 
alized where she was. Surely, surely , McRotty 
would not give her back. 

“ The young un’s dead,” said McRotty. 
He told the lie with such apparent candor, 
that the child half raised herself from her hid- 
ing place in her surprise. She wanted so to 
see McRotty’s face. She was not sure 
whether she was really alive or no. If not, it 
was, at any rate, very comfortable to be dead. 

For once Granny Brown was nonplussed. 
She began to tremble and quake. “ Dead ! 
the last thing that ever belonged to me. Who 
will shut my eyes for me ?” The fit passed : 
she gradually worked herself up into a fury 
about it. 

“Ye did it a purpose ; ye needn’t tell me. 
I know ye tried to get her to die jest to spite 
me.” 

“ Here’s something for you,” said McRotty, 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 


77 


handing out the dollar, as he gathered up the 
reins and clucked for Jake to go. But the 
hag clung to the van, and when he refused to 
give more, cursed him in a strain so original 
and vindictive, that even the peddler quaked. 

“ G’long, Jake. Get ap, get ap !” 

Nevertheless, the loneliness of the forlorn old 
creature was pitiable. She would die so some 
day, as she had lived, without human com- 
panionship. 

McRotty had a dim notion that he should 
receive extra credit for a dollar bestowed un- 
der such peculiarly aggravating circumstances 
He thought : “ I dunno how this givin’ is any 
ways different from any other givin’, but I 
want it understood, that if there is any par- 
ticular Christian way to give a dollar, that’s 
the way this dollar is gave. I aint sure about 
my motives nor my sperrit, but I’m dead sure 
that it’s worth a good deal mor’n a dollar to 
do it.” 

The little lame dog rejoined the van at the 


78 


McROTTY'S VAN. 


foot of the hill, having made a detour to 
avoid the hut. 

As the peddler and his family jogged along, 
the loneliness of the way was sometimes be- 
guiled with song. There was a rift in 
McRotty’s lute, but little Hannah’s treble 
piped in like the voice of some modest wood- 
bird. At such times Jake kept one ear 
pointed back. The dust from the gyrating 
wheel rose in a spiral cloud, and the lame 
dog limped contentedly under the van. 

There were other pensioners than those we 
have met. Sometimes the peddler, in his 
anxiety to provide for all, left nothing for 
himself. Who could fail to be amused, that 
such an improvident, uncalculating fellow 
sometimes went to bed hungry. 

McRotty was not saint-like. Any one of 
the boys between Mosstown and Duck Hol- 
low would laugh if you called him anything 
but Crosspatch. They pelted the van, and 
he chased them, sometimes whip in hand. 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 


79 


That was an active vendetta. No injury to 
himself would have been resented so promptly 
as the insult to his beloved van. 

Yet one object was dearer to him; that 
was Hannah. But Hannah was fading be- 
fore his eyes. It made no difference that he 
gave her the choicest fare that he could com- 
mand, and made a mattrass for her “nest,” so 
that she might be more comfortable. Without 
avail he paid for a lodging where she could 
spend her nights, but where she absolutely 
refused to be left alone when he was away. 

She must be lifted into the van whenever 
it started. Frail little flower! The peddler’s 
eyes were moist when he watched her delicate 
face with its unearthly quiet and peace. He 
had found her too late. 

It was because of his desire to provide for 
the winter a home where little Hannah could 
have shelter, and if need be a doctor, that 
McRotty resorted to night stands. He was 
by nature peculiarly fitted for this branch of 


8o 


McRO TTY’S VAN. 


his profession, being fluent even to eloquence. 
His penetrating, harsh voice was generally 
the vehicle for original and witty speeches 
and odd conceits. 

He saw a doctor about the child. Pity- 
ingly he examined the delicate creature. He 
knew that her days were numbered. 

“ She is far from strong,” he told McRotty. 
“Very far from strong. Have you any other 
children ?” 

Then the explanation of Hannah’s parent- 
age, bondage, and emancipation were simply 
given. At its close the physician looked 
more kindly at McRotty. “ You are a good 
man. I wish there were more like you. 
No ! no ! Put up your money. There is 
nothing I can do for the little one. Perhaps 
if you could give her a little change it would 
help to prolong her life.” 

“A little change,” he said. McRotty 
thought the matter over during the next day 
or two, and as a result of his meditations 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 


81 


he changed his route, so that the people on 
the east side of the hill wondered if the ped- 
dler was ill or his van broken down. He 
turned Jake’s head in a new direction. The 
oscillating wheel made its snake-like track in 
a new road. Hannah was delighted. It was 
like traveling in a foreign land. She bright- 
ened so that McRotty was sure she was 
mending. But the old langour returning, he 
was alarmed again. She must be taken still 
further away. As the season was advancing 
he turned Jake’s head southward. 

Wonderful bargains were made by the vil- 
lagers and farmer’s wives with the new ped- 
dler, whom they afterwards discussed among 
themselves. 

Once a child, visiting in a distant place, 
went running to her mother with the announce- 
ment, “ What do you think, mama, I have 
seen our old peddler.” But the woman an- 
swered, “ Nonsense, child, we are two hundred 
miles away from home. He could never drive 


82 


Me RO TTY'S VAN. 


his old horse as far as this.” Nevertheless it 
was McRotty and the van. 

They struck into the mountains. Before 
attempting to cross them, the peddler replen- 
ished his stock at one of the large towns he 
passed through. Away from most of his pen- 
sioners he had made money. Financially his 
change of base had been a success. He had 
never made a more satisfactory trip. 

Now the mountains hemmed them in. The 
wonderful hues of morning and evening, the 
beauties of rock and tree and fern bed, the 
wild grandeur of cliffs and crags, awed and 
delighted the travelers. But the road was 
silent, steep and rocky. Jake made frequent 
halts for rest, and the lame dog could not keep 
up with the van, so had to be taken into Mc- 
Rotty’s place while the latter walked and 
aided J ake with voice and shoulder. 

At the infrequent cabins of the mountain- 
eers money was scarce, but the peddler carried 
away about all that there was in circulation. 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 


83 


He had a way with him. The men argued. 
The women chaffered and bought. Indeed, 
though he did not realize it, the face of the 
sick child helped trade with many a sympa- 
thetic, motherly soul. 

Finally the van rolled down toward the 
plain once more. The slopes were less abrupt, 
the swales, red as blood with the stalks of the 
cut buckwheat, radiated from white, thrifty- 
looking farm houses. Valleys and villages 
burst into view. The van ran more smoothly, 
the roads being better. 

Then there came a day when its master, 
looking back, saw that he had indeed put a 
formidable barrier between himself and his 
own country. He was a stranger in a 
strange land. But he had come all this way 
to save little Hannah, and he would persevere. 
So far, in spite of the “ change ” she had not 
mended but had failed perceptibly. 

One night the van was standing in the 
square of a populous country town. It was 


84 


McROTTY'S VAN. 


court day and that brought people from a dis- 
tance, so that the place was filled with a curi- 
ous throng, ready, as country people are, for 
any novelty. McRotty had a lantern, a great 
red affair that he used for such occasions, 
swinging overhead, and beneath it he hawked 
his wares. He stooped now and then to the 
box where the little child lay, and under pre- 
tense of looking for goods to attract the gap- 
ing circle of customers, asked in a whisper 
that contrasted strangely with his usual strident 
tones, “ How d’ye feel now, dear ?” And the 
child’s voice, full of weariness and pain, replied 
always, “ I don’t feel good, Lotty.” “ Poor 
child — Lotty’s poor little one. Lotty ’1 be 
through pretty soon. We mus make ’nough 
to get our lodgin and breakfus, you know.” 
Then he would stroke her head and take her 
little hand in his for a moment and turn to 
his audience again with a mist before his eyes 
and a curious tightening in his throat. Yet 
he sold well. The crowd roared over his witty 


McRO TTY'S VAN . 


85 


speeches, and having laughed they bought. 
He saw that that sort of thing could not last 
much longer. He must sellout now if he 
could — sell goods and van, and Jake if neces- 
sary, to afford a little rest for the child over 
whose face he saw the fearful shadow resting. 
This was his opportunity. If he could close 
out to-night, surely, surely, he might save her 
yet. 

In the crowd before him, that grew as he 
talked, all were strangers. They were men 
who probably had wives and children and 
roofs of their own. They were known to each 
other. He alone was homeless. He had no 
friend but the child. Those who knew him 
were far away. 

“ Now, neighbors, what you want is one of 
these good, old-fashioned, home made cloth 
caps. They aint no shop work an’ no shoddy 
’bout ’em. They’s warrented to last as long 
as the moral law and fit as close as Uncle 
Esic’s arm to a widder. George Wash’n’tin 


86 


McROTTY'S VAN. 


wore one o’ these caps when he was crossin ’ 
the Delaware. Doochaloo said he would’nt 
care to be lost in Africa without one. There’s 
a style and a tone to ’em. You go to Noo 
York and go to the theayter and what d’ye 
see there ? Why, half the nobs has on caps 
of this here identical pattern. Thank you, sir. 
When you aint a wearin it ’tl do to carry eggs 
in, an’ when it gets old it’ll come in handy 
fer gun wads. No extry charge for advice. 
Step up an’ buy, gentlemen. I only got elev- 
en left out of that dozen, and if I could’nt get 
another I would’nt part with the first of ’em. 
While you are thinkin’ about it I’ll show you 
the best thing in the way of grease eradu- 
crater that the mind of man ever invented — 
only in this case I’ll bet a dollar ’twas a wom- 
an.” He dove down as though to find some 
of the vaunted packages, found Hannah’s 
cold fingers instead, and whispered hurriedly, 
“ Can’t I do nothin’ for you, love ? How are 
you feelin now ?” 


McRO TTY'S VAN. 87 

“ O, I’m so tired, Lotty, but I’ll be rested 
in a little while.” 

“ God bless you, little one, touch me if 
you want anythin’.” Then, turning to his 
audience : “ As I was a sayin’, ’t must aben a 
woman invented it, because we all know that 
a woman ’1 knock spots out of close quickern 
a man can any day. As a grease eraducrater 
thisT beat any other eraducrater in the world 
— I know, I've tried ’em all. It'll clean a 
bad record or the spot on your wife’s silk 
gownd that she got on at the last sworree. 
There was an ’ole woman tole me she used it 
fer an eye sarve and it cleared her wision so 
she throwed away her specks the next day. 

“(How you feelin’ now, Hannah? No 
easier ? try an’ get some sleep, dear.) 

“ The United States sockological cummis- 
sionhave ordered a million boxes to clean the 
spots off the sun with — that’s right ; a quarter 
of a dollar or two dimes an’ a nickle, thank 
you, sir. Two more, thanks. I never was 


88 


Me RO TTY'S VAN. 


in a place where the gents was such good, 
wide awake buyers. Now I’m goin’ to show 
you, 

“(Take some o’ this cordial, little Hannah. 
It’ll brace you up fine. Lemme lift you a 
little so’t you can lie easier. That’s the way. 
I’ll soon be through now.) 

“ Patience, gents ; don’t be impatient. As I 
was about to say, I’m goin’ to show you the 
nineteenth wonder of the world. This is the 
first time it has ever been onto exhibition. 
That’s right, examine it. I don’t wonder you 
wanter know what it is. Pass this over to 
that gentleman with the diamond collar but- 
ton, please. That’s a new contrivance for 
indicatin whether yer dice is loaded or not, 
— or whether yer grocer gives you elevin 
ounces to the pounder butter, — or if the big 
fish your father-in-law caught was as big as 
he thought it was. In other words, it is 
a scales. Lemme show you. It goes 
together so. Easy as flyin’ when you’re 


McROTTY' S VAN. 


89 

usterit. How many? Yes sir, twenty-five 
cents ; most of my goods is twenty-five 
cents ; sort of trade mark. 

“ How are you now, little one ? 

“Hannah. Hannah ! She ain’t asleep ? She 
can t be asleep so with her eyes open ? 
Hannah, — little Hannah !” His trembling 
hand sought the pulse, felt for the stilled 
heart beat. Little Hannah ! 

His own heart almost stood still at what he 
discovered. A moment later, as the throng 
began to grow impatient, he turned to them 
again. 

“ I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there is some- 
thing gone wrong. I can’t sell no more to- 
night. I find my stock has got mixed up that 
bad it will take me longer to sort it than you 
could wait. Good night.” So McRotty’s 
van moved through the dispersing crowd with 
its peaceful dead and sorrowful living load. 



UNCLE SUNDAY. 


“ I hold yo’ horse, maaster, whilse you ’sist 
de lady ter dismount. I jes’ fasten him here, 
so, till one them stable-boys comes derreckly 
an’ takes him yonder. Walk right in, sah, 
an’ ril take yo’ keerds to my mistus.” 

As they entered the broad hall, the old man 
peered around anxiously, as though surprised 
at not finding at least one hall-boy on duty. 
He swung the parlor door open, aud ushered 
the guests in with the air of a man who re- 
sumes once familiar duties under stress of pe- 
culiar circumstances. 

Ascending to the second story with the 
cards, he presented them to his mistress with 


92 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


the free comment that “ They looks like our 
kind of folks, — quality folks, — Miss Marg’ret, 
so I jest put my bes fut forrards.” 

Presently he reappeared at the door of the 
parlor, and announced, “ Miss Delplaine be 
down presently, sah,” his white head bowing 
low meanwhile. 

Retiring with all the dignity of an ancient 
butler, he gained the back hall, and at once 
quickened his pace to something as nearly 
resembling a run as his old legs could accom- 
plish, muttering to himself as he went : 

“As soon’s Miss Marg’ret get dar in de 
parlor, de fus’ ting she do be to open dem 
front curtains ’fore I c’n get de horse tooken 
away.” 

With trembling, eager hands he loosened 
the hitching strap, a heroic undertaking in 
itself, for Uncle Sunday was mightily afraid 
of horses ; nor did he breath comfortably till 
his charge was safe in the carriage-house. 

“I like to unloose him if I knowd I was 


UNCLE SUNDA V. 


93 


shore I could get him hitched again,” he so- 
liloquized. “ ’Sides dat, I aint so shore I got 
anything to feed him ’cep’ grass, an’ he don’ 
look like a horse w’at been raised on grass, 
nuther.” 

Painfully the old man crept to the loft, and 
thankfully gathered and threw down a little 
hay which he found there, ruthlessly robbing 
a hen of her nest in his eagerness to get 
enough. 

“ N ow dat dar’s ’complished satisfactory, I 
like ter know how long dey purposes ter stay. 
Hope ter goodness Miss Marg’ret aint goin’ 
ast ’em to stay to dinner !” 

He locked the door of the stable, and hur- 
ried back to the house. “If dey does stay, — 
an’ dere aint no reckonin’ on w’at Miss 
Marg’ret goin’ do, — de dignerty ob de house 
got ter be kep’ up, but blest if I knows how, 
dis time.” 

Uncle Sunday had spent most of the latter 
years of his life in “ keeping up the dignity of 


94 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


the house.” Born on the estate in the days 
when slavery was an institution still tolerated 
in New York, though very rare, he had spent 
his youth in that happy idleness which “young 
maaster’s valley ” looked back upon from his 
eminence of four score years as the veritable 
age of gold. He had accompanied his charge 
to college, assisted in the pranks and honors 
of that far-away time, and was rewarded with 
the honorable post of butler. 

Years passed. The master married, was a 
father, grew old, and died, commending with 
his dying breath the care of his orphan daugh- 
ter to the servant who had been so faithful to 
him. Margaret’s mother trusted the faithful 
negro as her parent had done, and at the end 
of her brief wedded life, she in turn invested 
Uncle Sunday with a sacred charge — the 
comfort and well-being of her infant, 
Margaret. 

But the years, coming with many promises, 
departed as robbers, carrying with them bank 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


95 


stock and live stock, servants and securities. 
Those who had eaten long of the bread of 
the Delplaines went regretfully to those who 
could afford to pay and feed them. As each 
servitor followed his predecessor down the 
long drive under the elms, Uncle Sunday 
took up the abandoned task without com- 
plaint or murmur. 

First he became gardener ; then hall-porter ; 
afterward cook, and finally assumed the duties 
of that useful creature known in domestic 
economy as “ second girl.’- If a hero is one 
who never fails to rise to his occasion, I leave 
you to name Uncle Sunday. 

As he stole into the house again, with a 
satisfied feeling of having accomplished an- 
other of the illusions to which he devoted 
much of his time, — that is to say, having, as 
he imagined, impressed upon the visitors the 
idea that the Delplaines still supported a 
proper retinue, — Miss Margaret came swiftly 
to find him. 


9 6 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


“Uncle Sunday, Judge Lord is an old 
friend of father’s, from the West. He and 
his wife will dine with me to-day.” 

“ For de good gracious sake, Miss 
Marg’ret ! We aint got nuthin’ ’tall ter set 
befo’ ’em.” 

“ Oh, you will manage somehow. You 
know you always do,” she replied, lightly, and 
returned to her guests, leaving the perplexed 
negro to shake his snowy wool in despair. 

“ Dis sorter thing make a man ole befo’ 
his time ! ” he groaned. “ W’at I goin’ do ? 
De ain’ no trest at de butcher, an de ole hen 
mighty tough. De ain’ no gyarden sass to 
speak of, nuther, nor no fiddlin’s fo’ de las’ 
course. How I goin’ keep up de dignerty if 
Miss Marg’ret act like dis ?” 

Uncle Sunday might confess defeat ; he 
often did, but he stopped there. He never 
failed. By some process of chemistry known 
only to the great few, the toughness of the 
old fowl was reduced to a minimum. With 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


97 


wine and eggs a dessert was concocted; 
tomatoes lent their disguising influence to the 
soup, and the judge was full of compliments 
to his hostess on the perfect service rendered 
by her venerable butler. 

“He seems an admirable manager,” added 
Mrs. Lord. “ I wish that I could find such a 
one. I can imagine that your other servants 
give you no trouble while he regulates affairs.” 

Miss Margaret admitted that she did not 
experience the slightest inconvenience from 
that source. 

If the major domo dreamed that 
his trials were over, he reckoned wildly. 
His mistress called upon him, as he regarded, 
with a mingling of regret and pride, the re- 
mains of the dinner that had both taxed and 
attested his ability, and announced, in her 
usual nonchalant way, that the Lords would 
rest with them till the morrow. The lamen- 
tations of the privileged servant were instant 
and vehement. 


9 8 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


“ Now, Miss Marg’ret, w’at I ever done to 
you dat you should treat me dis fashion ? 
Ain’ I give de jedge a mighty fa’r dinner, 
when you knows you’se’f we hadn’ nothin’ in 
de house ’cept’ de cellar ? 

“ But I clar to gracious, Miss Marg’ret, I 
clean beat, dis time. Let alone de j edge’s 
horse, w’at I carnt unhitch to save my soul, 
even ’lowin’ I had anything to give him when 
I done got him unhitch, dar’s de supper an’ 
de brekfus’, an’ all de udder wukkins ter foller. 
We’s quality, Miss Marg’ret, an’ we got to do 
like quality an’ look like quality, an’” — he 
added, with pathos — ‘‘it beats my time to 
cunjure how we’se goin’ to do it.” 

But Miss Margaret only laughed airily at 
the old man’s perplexity. 

“You will accomplish it somehow, Uncle 
Sunday ; you know you always do.” 

So Uncle Sunday went about it. He dis- 
posed of the horse question by persuading a 
darkey on a farm adjoining to take that labor 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


99 


off his hands. Then he turned his attention 
to the question of provender for his human 
charges. Supper was arranged for, as his 
mistress had decreed, “somehow.” Break- 
fast, after a masterly struggle with inadequa- 
cies, he succeeded in serving to the satisfac- 
tion of all parties concerned. 

The mysteries of the upper region he grap- 
pled with successfully, as usual. The judge 
was complacent as he viewed the polish on 
his boots, and the judge’s lady found no detail 
of comfort wanting in her chamber. Surely 
Miss Delplaine was blessed in having such 
servants in her house — so efficient yet so un- 
obtrusive ! 

After breakfast Uncle Sunday waited con- 
fidently for the order to have the judge’s car- 
riage brought around ; he contemplated and 
enjoyed in advance Miss Delplaine’s pleased 
surprise when the newly acquired negro 
should appear in the place of groom. 

Thinking of this, he went to the stable to 


IOO 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


see how his employee was getting on, and 
found that individual in a state of disgraceful 
intoxication. 

What was to be done ? The horse was in 
the shafts and partly harnessed when he ar- 
rived on the scene of inaction ; before the as- 
sistant reached a state of maudlin incompet- 
ency he must be made to complete that ser- 
vice. 

With many misgivings the old man finally 
inspected the work, fastened the animal to a 
strap depending conveniently near, and then 
assisted the drunken man to the outer air. 
He returned to the house crestfallen and 
heartsore, to be met for the third time with 
the announcement that the visitors had con- 
sented to prolong their stay. 

Uncle Sunday was too crushed to respond. 
There seemed to be no further possibility of 
avoiding disgrace. His wrinkled cheeks were 
actually wet with tears as he groped his way 
into the buttery, and fell on his knees by the 


UNCLE SUNDAY. 


IOI 

dresser. He lifted up his voice, softly, out of 
respect to the proprieties of the house, but fer- 
vently, after the manner of his race, and said : 

“ Lawd, I ain’ nothin’ but a pore ole niggar 
w’ats doin’ de bes’ he kin to save dis house 
from bein’ disgrace. Ef it ain’ askin’ too 
much I wish you done kill dis ole man right 
now, or else perwide me somethin’ to put into 
de stall and on de table for dis yere jedge 
f’um out Wes’ w’ats cum to devour us like de 
locusses devour de chillun of Izrul. 

“ Ise a weeked ole sinner, O Lawd ! but I 
ain’ done bad enough ter desurb dat my ole 
gray hair be brought down wid disgrace dis 
way, nohow. I ain’ a-askin’ nuthin’ fer my 
own se’f dis time, but fo’ de fambly — dey’s 
quality, Lawd ! Gib us dis day our daily bread, 
and other things accorjun.” 

Uncle Sunday got up from his knees some- 
what stiff and sore, but greatly comforted. A 
man of resources, he was inspired with one of 
more than ordinary greatness now. 


102 


UNCLE SUNDA Y. 


Perhaps his instinctive consultation with 
the ancient watch which his master had given 
him years ago, suggested a plan. The open 
face of this confidential friend smiled up at 
him and the hands seemed to make signs. 
What did they propose ? 

Uncle Sunday started by the nearest path 
for the village. 

“ What’ll you gib me for dis watch ?” he 
asked the storekeeper as he laid that tried 
friend on the counter and leaned his trembling 
brown hands heavily beside it. 

“ I don’t know. I don’t want your old 
turnip,” was the curt reply. 

He gulped down the big lump in his throat 
that impeded his breath, and drew himself up 
indignantly. 

“ ’Taint no turnip. ’Taint becomin’ in no 
man to talk so ’bout a good watch, nuther. I 
ast you a civil question, Mr. White, an’ I 
spected I’d get a civil answer.” 

He prepared to return the rejected time- 


UNCLE SUNDA Y. 


103 


piece to his pocket, but Mr. White good- 
humoredly interposed. 

“ Don’t get wild, old man. Let me have 
a look at your watch ?” 

He examined it with so much carelessness 
and want of feeling, that Uncle Sunday 
thought he should faint. 

“ What do you want for this old thing ?” 

The negro thought rapidly. He did not 
know anything about the value of such prop- 
erty, so he blundered upon a figure. 

“ Seben dollars, sar.” 

“ Hoo !” shouted White. “ Do you throw 
yourself in along of the watch ? I’ll give you 
three for it.” 

“ Call it fo’, Mr. White. Call it fo’, —an 
even fo’,” — suggested our friend. 

“ Nope. Tell you what I will do. I’ll 
make it three and a half.” 

He turned to the till, and laid three dollars 
and a half on the counter, then looked in- 
quiringly at his customer. The watch lay 


104 UNCLE SUNDAY , 

between them ; beside it were the bright 
coin. 

Uncle Sunday wavered. There came up 
before him the face of his old master, of 
the first day that the watch had been worn, 
with a pride that could hardly be concealed. 
Then he remembered Miss Margaret, and 
the necessities of her house. 

“ Well ! What are you going to do ?” 

“ I’ll take it, Mr. White.” 

White’s large palm swept the watch towards 
him, but the negro, with a cry that was 
most pitiful, stretched out his hands invol- 
untarily after it. 

“Jes’ once mo’, sah? Jes lemme hoi’ it 
in my han’ once mo’.” 

It was given to him. He seemed to caress 
it, he placed it near his ear and listened to 
its long familiar voice ; he turned his back 
to the storekeeper for a moment, during 
which time no one may know what sacred 
rite was performed, but when he handed it 


UNCLE SUNDA Y. 


105 


suddenly to its owner, there was a drop of 
water on the crystal. 

“ Hold on, uncle !” shouted White, as 
the old man struck blindly for the door. 
<k You forgot to take your money. And say,” 
he added, “ I guess I may as well make that 
four, after all.” 

When Uncle Sunday went mournfully back 
over the stile, across the field, his arms were 
full of bundles and his heart burdened with 
grief. Others might eat and be satisfied, but 
he felt that no dinner would ever so fill out 
his waistcoat that he should cease to have a 
sensation of vacuum about the region of the 
pocket where his watch had reposed. 

The judge dined well that evening. The 
judge’s horse had a full measure of feed, and 
the clock work of domestic service in Miss 
Delplaine’s household seemed unimpaired by 
age or accident. In the morning the judge 
called for his horse, and the assistant negro, 
who had sobered in the meantime, brought 


106 UNCLE SUNDA Y. 

him round ; so the credit of the family was 
saved, but at what a cost nobody guessed. 

White, the storekeeper, had been in the 
West in his youth, and, singularly enough, 
lived in the town which proudly owned Judge 
Lord ; so it happened when that gentleman 
came driving down from the Delplaine 
house, that he was recognized by the 
merchant. 

“ Does my eyes good to see you, jedge,” 
after the first salutations had been exchanged ; 
“ How long you been in town?” 

“ Two days.” 

“Two days? sho — where you been stop- 
ping ?” 

“We have been visiting Miss Delplaine’s. 
By the way, what a house that is, old-fash- 
ioned style that we Western people imagine 
had died out. I must say, White, that for a 
good table and unexampled service I have 
never been better entertained. She must 
be a good patron of yours, eh ?” 


UNCLE SUNDA Y. 


107 


White looked at the judge in perplexity 
for a moment, and then, seeing that the latter 
was evidently in earnest, he shook hands again 
with the great man, and went back to his 
store with the look of one who has made a 
discovery. 

“ Great guns ! That nigger is the greatest 
genius in this State of New York. ‘Best 
feed and best service,’ that’s what the jedge 
said ; that’s what gets me.” 

How it happened I never could tell ex- 
actly, but Uncle Sunday might have been 
seen wearing his much-loved watch one 
bright day soon after this, and he wore it 
till he died. 























































































THE HISTORIAN OF THE 
FUTURE. 


What we really need is a new tense. For 
all ordinary purposes one may do well enough 
with the “ was ” and the “ will be ” of our 
every day speech, but for extraordinary oc- 
casions we certainly require an unusual mode 
of expression. The purpose of this story, as 
intimated, requires a new tense. 

Our hero — John Historicus Simpson— was 
born in the 36th century A.D. This state- 
ment will no doubt be beyond the compre- 
hension of ordinary minds ; but that need not 


10 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE . 


trouble the reader. John Historicus, I re- 
peat, was born in the year three thousand five 

hundred and and, at the time we write 

of, was living with a Maiden Uncle and a 
cousin from Vassar College. They inhabited 
one of the “ heat, cold and malaria proof ” 
cottages built upon the south shore of the 
then thickly populated (though as yet undis- 
covered) land which lies (?) to the eastward 
of that artificial continent which the United 
States government will no doubt cause to be 
constructed when we shall take the place of 
China in the gradual shifting of populations. 

The Uncle who kept house for John His- 
toricus and his Vassar cousin was a quiet 
lady-like old person who never troubled his 
head ahout men’s rights or any of the 
“ advanced ” questions of the day. “ Men 
have all the rights they need if they know 
how to use them,” he was wont to say. His 
favorite relation was his niece Lotharia ; a 
bright dashing fellow she was, who had gone 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE . 1 1 1 


in for all the college honors and who pulled 
the best stroke on the river. She studied 
law. Historicus was very bookish ; instead 
of devoting his days to dress and society he 
spent most of his time in poring over choice 
and rare copies of what the ancients called 
magazines — perhaps because of the explos- 
ive compounds they contained. 

If we look with reverence at the great men 
of former times and, with a feeling like awe, 
scrape the moss away from the ragged lines 
with which Hie jacet is graven on their tombs, 
with how much more of worshipful feeling 
must we regard this little man of the 36th 
century when we recognize in him the 
Historian of the Future. 

That is rather a ticklish position for a man 
to occupy, but, strange to relate, the deserv- 
ing and honored incumbent never suspected 
his own identity. He supposed himself to be 
only a historian of the present who could do 
his reverencing with the best of his contem- 


1 1 2 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 

poraries. Of course we know that A.D. 3500 
is in the far, dim future, but he. thought it 
only a part of the present. Attention is 
called especially to this point, as it shows 
how even a wise man may hold absurd notions 
and be governed to a large extent by preju- 
dice. Historicus, be it admitted, then, 
lived in complete ignorance of his mission 
until one day he stumbled upon a volume of 
antiquity— a treasure more rare and curious 
than any which he had had the delight of 
studying. 

It was at the stall of a book merchant that 
he found it ; after the purchase had been ar- 
ranged he discoursed to the dealer of the 
value of his discovery. “ See !” he said. 
“ The language is undoubtedly Teutonic 
(from two tonics ) and probably that archaic 
form spoken by the aborigines of America 
about the time of King Lincoln the 1st.” 
The shelves of the book merchant extended 
for blocks down the main thoroughfare of the 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 113 

metropolis and as his eye glanced along the 
endless rows he sighed, thinking how many 
times he might let a good bargain go as this 
had done. 

The book in question was a copy of the 
much prized fables, (called “ History ” upon 
the quaint title page), of one Froude, who was 
still alive when the poet of the Sierras formed 
that famous sect known as the Millerites, and 
when the ancient military bishop and gover- 
nor of a great commonwealth had just begun 
to reap the reward of fame for his political 
satire, Hudibras. How strangely the old- 
fashioned type and the absurd papyrus ap- 
peared to the student, used as he was to the 
more modern method of the transmission of 
thought by means of the electric audographic 
film. It is just possible that Simpson was 
the only man in the city who could have read 
the contents of that curious volume. 

He clasped his treasure close, hiding it in 
the folds of his robe, and made his way 


H4 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE . 

eagerly over the distance which intervened to 
his home; or, to speak more correctly, the 
distance made its way under him ; for the 
pavements of the city were always in motion, 
sliding along as rapidly as one would care to 
walk. It was beautiful to see the orderly, 
noiseless way in which the current of human 
life glode (that is a 36th century word) past 
each other, one going up town and the other 
down. There was no standing on street 
corners, no loafing about the doors of hotels. 
When one man wished to talk with another he 
either walked with him or entered a conver- 
sation hall, where they could have a table and 
chairs for an hour by the payment of five 
cents. That was a modern improvement. 
All along the flowing way, as it was called, 
were chairs and benches, and over the whole 
of it was spread, in rainy weather, a great 
umbrella. Besides all this the space below 
the paving was hollow and arranged for the 
reception of baggage and parcels. Histori- 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 1 1 5 

cus was not at all tired when he reached home 
with his precious book ; to whose contents he 
at once applied himself. 

Upon the margin of one of the pages were 
several dull black lines evidently made by 
some forgotten blunt instrument. Upon being 
chemically examined these marks or tracings 
showed the presence of Carburet of Iron, or 
that substance known to the ancients as 
Graphite. The student was in raptures. 
Hastily adjusting his new automatic eye reg- 
ulator he enlarged his vision sufficiently to be 
able to read what was written there. It was 
an appeal to the Historian of the Future. 

John Historicus laid down the volume and 
pondered. “ Yes,” he said. “ I have cer- 
tainly seen that many times before, but was 
never so struck by it as now. Is it possible 
that I can be the- Historian referred to ? I 
have always considered myself as of the pres- 
ent ; but ‘appearances are deceitful,’ as some 
old philosopher — I think Milton — says. And 


1 1 6 HIS TOR I A N OF THE FUT URE. 


it is possible that I may be the Historian of 
the Future.” 

Historicus was very downcast when he 
made this discovery. 

“I shall have a hard time adjusting their 
old lies,” he said. “ As hard, I imagine, as 
ever one of their old time judges had in the 
days when a barbarian could not commit a 
crime without involving in his punishment a 
whole regiment of policemen, detectives, law- 
yers, jurors and judges — to say nothing of the 
newspaper men. Now we manage things 
better. The electric criminal indicator re- 
cords the commission of crimes and the slip 
of evidence passing under the galvanic motive 
detector, at once enters and sets in motion 
the whole constabulary automata ; it is very 
complete. We live in a wonderful age,” 
mused the young man. “But for me, the 
Historian of the Future, if I am really that 
person, there can be no restful mechanical 
appliances, ministering gently to my needs. 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE . 1 1 7 

I must be girt with the ancient judicial gown 
and crowned with the wig and then be jury 
and court recorder as well — yes, and even 
executioner. Pah ! how could I ever have 
admired that pack of aspiring scribblers ? ” 
This was one of the most remarkable 
speeches Historicus had ever made, both be- 
cause of its length and its intensity ; but he 
was deeply moved. He wildly, and for a time 
vainly, raved against his establishment in 
that honorable but tedious office to which a 
too trusting antiquity had called him. But 
he could not doubt his mission now. Too 
often had he seen such words as these : “ His- 
tory will vindicate me ,” or “ The Historian of 
the Future will , with clearer vision ,” etc., etc. 
Some men would have shirked so unpleasant 
a duty as that with which Simpson found 
himself face to face, but something in the 
young man’s moral make-up forbade that. 

A conversation with Lotharia put a some- 
what new face on the matter for a while, how- 


1 18 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 


ever. Entering the library in that peculiarly 
breezy way for which girls were noted in the 
year 3500 a.d. she threw herself into an easy 
chair and her cigarette into the fire, (they had 
come back to the broad open fire-place and 
wood fire by that time) and communicated 
herself as follows : 

“Cousin Horri, what ails you to-day ? You 
look as though you had lost your best friend. 
If you boys would only live out of doors more 
— row and walk and that sort of thing as we 
girls do, you would not feel like moping in a 
corner all day long. Come — get your hat 
and cloak and we’ll take a turn on the Plaza.” 

Poor Historicus’ rather wan face flushed 
with pleasure at these words ; lighted, in fact, 
very perceptibly ; for he was no longer young 
and these little attentions on the part of his 
handsome and strong cousin were very grati- 
fying, not the less, perhaps, because of their 
infrequently. But he murmured : “ I can’t 
possibly go this morning, dear, much as I 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 1 19 

should like to walk with you. I have too 
much to do. You see I have been down 
town already and I must finish all this writ- 
ing ; besides helping Uncle Timothy with the 
housework.” 

The young lady arose with a considerable 
show of temper and walked quickly towards 
the door. 

“ One would think by your coquettish airs 
that you were sweet seventeen instead of” — 
bang ! went the door and cut off the rest of 
the sentence. 

“ It is a fact,” sighed Historicus, “ I am a 
passee old bas bleu of uncertain age, which 
that ancient prophetess, Mother Winslow, 
said meant ‘certainly aged.’ ” 

In a few moments, however, the gay Loth- 
aria returned, quite penitent for her petulance. 
Going over to her cousin’s side she patted 
the little gentleman’s dehirsuted crown and 
said tenderly : 

“ What’s the row, Horri ? ” 


120 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 


“ I am the Historian of the Future sighed 
Simpson. 

“ That’s bad ; what did you do it for ? ” 

“ I didn’t do it ; I had no more to do with 
it than you had when you got the scarlet 
fever. The first thing I knew I was all brok- 
en out with it. Look at this book ” — here he 
presented what looked to the girl’s untutored 
eyes like a bound collection of beetle tracks 
— “ see how they appeal to the Historian of 
the Future.” 

“Yes, but this isn’t the future, its the pres; 
ent y ” she said, as she gracefully lighted another 
cigarette. 

“You goose — it’s the future to them;” in- 
interposed Histoncus, with some asperity. 
He continued; “I sometimes doubt whether 
the past and the future are not all of life, 
since we never know the present except in 
one of the other tenses : we never realize it. ’ 

But Lotharia replied sagely : “ I tell you 
what it is, my son, if anyone is going to get 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 12 1 


on in this world he must be sufficiently con- 
temporaneous to know the present while it is 
here ; otherwise, it strikes me that his life 
will be made up of the things he is just going 
to do and the things he has just missed 
doing.” Then, after a pause, she added: 
“I’ll tell you what, Horri.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Well — just skip it.” 

This was a cutting of the knot in a way 
for which our little friend found himself hardly 
prepared. But the idea, as an idea abstract, 
gained favor with him as he considered it. 
There was an element of common sense in it 
which recommended it to his fancy. An 
hour or so later the newly elected Historian 
of the Future was quietly pursuing his studies 
when a nervous rap on the door startled him. 

“ Come in,” he cried, as he snatched an 
arm-ful of apparatus from the chair at his 
side. There entered presently the strangest 
procession that the eyes of mortal ever were 


122 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 


blessed with seeing. Historicus was amazed 
at the appearance of the people who con- 
fronted him. He looked at his own flowing 
robes, with their graceful white folds and then 
at the straight, sombre and improper costume 
of his guests. They were certainly bipeds ; 
he remarked to himself that they seemed to 
belong to the family of waders. There were 
fat men, thin men, short ones and tall ones, 
and some of no particular figure at all, and 
they every one wore ridiculous clothes that 
fitted closely to arms, legs and backs : the 
only approach to drapery was a pair of tails 
that hung irresolutely from the edge of each 
upper garment. It was the costume of the 
nineteenth century. 

The spokesman of this odd company was a 
lean-faced, resolute-eyed old man, who spoke 
with what we would recognize as a strong 
Scottish burr. He advanced before the 
others and asked : “ Can ye tell us where we 
may find the Historian of the Future ?” 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 


23 


“ I presume I am the person you seek. 
Pray be seated. What can I do for you?” 
asked poor Simpson, politely. 

“ What ! You ? Such a wee runt as you the 
holder of that honorable office? Well — I 
suppose you have read Sartor Resartus ; 
what think you of that work ? And my life of 
Frederick the Great and all my histories and 
pamphlets and the like ?” 

“ Really,” stammered Historicus ; “ I — I — 
really — never read — that is, I hardly recollect. 
You see, the fact is, it is considered a great 
deal nowadays to have even heard the name 
of so small a matter as a pamphlet written 
sixteen hundred years ago.” Historicus felt 
exceedingly warm. 

“ Such a small matter /” echoed his visi- 
tor, shrilly and wrathfully. “ I dinna’ wunner 
ye are sic a puny gowk if your food has been 
the titles o’ beuks” 

“ But my friend — ” 

“ Na, Na. I am not a friend to any starved 


124 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 


diner on beuk titles !” So saying, the irate 
classic shook the dust from his shadowy feet 
and departed in high dudgeon. 

Then another pressed forward from the 
ranks of the visitors and said, while his face 
was wreathed in smiles : ‘‘No doubt you 
will consider it a needless precaution for me 
to bring with me so familiar a work as my 
‘ Age of Reason ,’ but I wish no unnecessary 
delay, as I have a lecture to deliver in Hades 
this afternoon. Please let me have my cer- 
tificate as soon as possible.” 

“ But, my dear sir, I am sure I have never 
before heard of the work in question. It 
must be a very rare one, for though I am an 
acknowledged bibliopole yet I never have 
chanced to see a copy.” The Historian of 
the Future spoke slowly and sadly. Then 
his visitor, like his predecessor, departed mut- 
tering ; merely pausing long enough to give 
an incredulous stare. He was heard to say 
something about having mistaken the house. 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 1 2 5 


By this time John Historicus Simpson 
made up his mind that he was in for an all 
day job ; so he seated himself again at the 
table, ruled an electric receptive film and 
called judicially for the next applicant. It 
never occurred to him to put up a sign re- 
quiring fifty dollars for an opinion. ’ 4 Next!” 
A poet came next. A poet, well on in years, 
about whose gray, wiry hair and bristling un- 
kempt beard hung a suggestion, a flavor, of 
English meadows and meres and the sea wall 
of her coast. In his hands were odes and 
idyls, and the herons stalked beside him in 
stately fashion, while curlews, like dreary 
gleams, flitted over him. By his side walked 
another old man, whose line lips seemed 
ready to burst into some song of happy Aca- 
dia, or the music of some golden legend. 

These two came to the table together, and 
the judge rose and did honor to them, be- 
cause one had set to music the thoughts of 
the sages of his time, and had cast the weight 


126 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 

of his genius into the world’s scale for good, 
and the other, in another land, had shaped 
his heart into a focus to collect and distribute 
again the sunshine. 

After these were many others — soldiers 
and statesmen, novelists, and those other 
writers of fiction whom we call historians — 
but the poets were treated the best of all. 

Many of the people who came to that 
tribunal had never been heard of, and they 
all went away satisfied that they had not yet 
found the Historian of the Future. There 
were those who had advanced very confi- 
dently to lay their works upon that table who 
departed in a sadly demoralized condition. 
The judge ran his eyes over some of the titles. 
“ Lectures on the Mistakes of Moses ” — un- 
known. “ Descent of Man a rare work of 
logical whims. “ Reign of Law : ” a classic 
of worth and still used as a text book. “ Life 
of George Washington : ” one of a hundred 
similar accounts of a semi-authentic person- 


HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 127 

age who was supposed by some authorities 
to be a sort of rehash of King Authur. And 
so the list ran on, ad infinitum. But after a 
while the Historian of the Future grew weary 
of his task and demanded anxiously : 

“ How many of you are there ?” 

“As many as the stars in heaven,” an- 
swered a voice from the centre of the crowd. 

“ Then I refuse to have anything to do 
with you, or your business ; the whole thing 
is a shameless imposition.” 

There was a sudden flurry of grey garments, 
a gleaming of many sunken eyes, moving of 
bony fists and a deafening horrible outcry — 
a most clamorous outcry of shrill voices. 
And John Historicus Simpson found himself 
lying by the side of the sofa, while Lotharia 
bent over him, he still holding the volume he 
had bought that day from the merchant. 

“ Cousin Horri ! ” cried the girl ; “ Cousin 
Horri, wake up ; you’ve been having a night- 
mare.” 


128 HISTORIAN OF THE FUTURE. 

“ I suspect I have,” said Historicus. He 
slowly unwound himself from the self-acting 
chrono audo penetrative coil in which he had 
somehow become entangled. “I suspect I 
have — and I am sincerely thankful that it was 
nothing worse.” 



















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